A funerall elegie vpon the death of the late most hopefull and illustrious prince, Henry, Prince of Wales / vvritten by Thomas Heyvvood.

A Funerall Elegie , Of the late most High and Illustrious Prince , HENRY , Prince of Wales . IS all the Land in sorrow , and can I Still silent be ? when euery Muse exclames On Time , on Death , and on sad Destiny , FOR HENRIES losse , cursing the fatall Dames . Mournes Christendome ? and in a generall cry , Vp-roares her griefes , whilst some weake Phisicke blames Accusing Galen of his want of skill That where he once can saue , doth oft-times kill . Others on Soueraignty , that hath giuen power To Princes , others forset liues to saue , Yet to their owne Times cannot adde an hower , Or keepe their bodies from th' abortiue Graue . Oh greedy Earth , whose hunger could denoure So choyce a gem ! thou neuer leau'st to craue , More rauenous then the most raging fires , Earth still the more it eates , the more desires . What Muse shall I inuoke ? To whom commit The guidance of my weake vnable braine ? Whose humble thoughts neuer aspired yet A pitch so lofty , or so high a straine , A subiect for my weakenesse farre vnfit , As neuer hauing like cause to complaine . Was euer like to this ? seene , heard , or read ? Th' Hope of three kingdoms ( nay the World ) is dead . Whom shall I blame for this great Crosse of Crosses ? This present want , which Earth cannot supply , To generall Europe , the great Losse of Losses . Had we put all our sinnes to vsury , Could they haue yeelded vs such Drosse of Drosses ? Had all the world deuis'd one Tragedy , And drawne the proiect from a thousand yeares , From the spectators could it draw more teares ? This Vniuerse imagine a Theater , Nations spectators , and this land a stage . Was euer Actor , made by the Creator , That better scean'd his part vnto his Age ? 'Mongst all compos'd of fire , aire , earth and water , So grauely yong , and so vnmellowed sage : Whose Trunke the Tombe exacts , as of a detter , Subiect or Prince , none euer acted better . Nay who so well ? yet as oft-times we see ( Presented in a lofty buskind stile ) Achilles fall , Thersites to scape free , The eminent Hector on the dead-mans file Numbred and rank't , when men morebase then he Suruiue the battell of lesse worth and stile . So thousands haue suruiu'd these mortall brals , Whil'st amongst millions , standing , Henry fals . Whom shall I blame for this ? Iust heauen ? oh no , Starres are their eyes , and ( with so many ) seeing , What cloud can hud-winke all ? besides we know , The Maker that gaue Them and Vs our being , Whose out-streacht hand steares all things here below The imprisned soules from their base bondage freeing , Being all goodnesse , he can neuer erre : Then vnto whom shall we the blame transferre ? To Earth ? we know she naturally breeds Both Trees for vse , and Plants that onely spring . But neither beare nor build : both flowers & weeds , Simples , hearbes , roots , and euery other thing , For smell or pallat , that delights , or feeds . Should faire Pomona to Vertumnus bring Her choycest store , she could not deck her bower With such a sweet , faire , odoriferous flower . Is not the Earth a Mother ? and could she Contentedly part with her best-lou'd Sonne ? In whose creation Nature was so free , That to compose him , she was halfe vndone Her store she had so wasted : for , to be As he was late , Ages must backward runne , And her great Ware-house , as in it first pride , With her first plenty must be new supply'd . It was not Earth then sure : might it be Nature ? Would she her choycest worke-manship destroy ? Her best of fabrickes : both for beauty , stature , And all perfections mankinde can enioy ? And in his growth , before he was full Mature , Vnto her owne pride could she proue so coy , As to this height of spight to haue transcended , To spoyle so braue a worke ere 't was full ended ? Vnlesse I could imagine one so fond To build a gorgious pallace , but to race it : A cunning painter that hath gone beyond His skill , in a faire picture , to deface it Before the world his cunning vnderstand . For one to make a rich suit , and ere grace it Cut it to shreds . Imagine these to be , Else from his sad fate I must Nature free . On whom shall I this blacke aspersion cast ? Vpon the Furies , Fiends , and Hagges below , And say that Hell had hand in 't at the last ? Although I hate Hell , I l'e not iniur't so ; As stands Ioue's Tree , whom lightning cannot blast , So high , so broad , so greene , this plant did grow . As is the Lawrell from all Tempests free , So thousand Hels could haue no power o're Thee . If neither Heauen , Earth , Nature , nor yet Hell , Or would not , or else could not act thy ruine , If none of these such sorrowes might compell , Both to this present Age , and Times ensuing . What was it then ? or who ? Muse canst thou tell ? Resolue the world , and to their generall viewing Present the cause why in his prime of yeares , So great a people should be washt in teares . It was not Fate , his vertues and choyce graces , ( Gifts both of Heauen and Nature ) mixt with state , Had in his bosome chose such soueraigne places , That he was arm'd against all power of Fate : Nor Time , though he before him driues , and chaces Minutes , dayes , months and yeares : till he call late Euery new season ; to haue sau'd his Prime , From his own daies he would haue lent him time . I must excuse Age , and extent of yeares : For they ( alacke the while ) nere saw each other . Oh had they met , we then had spar'd these teares , And sau'd this griefe , which is too great to smother , So milde , so graue , so reuerent , Age appeares He would haue ioy'd to imbrace him as a brother , As youth his hopes : he would haue striu'd to raise His fortunes , beeing cloath'd in ancient dayes . The Muses and the Arts I can acquite : For they are all too good to act such ill , Preposterous 't were to thinke them opposite So farre to their owne life , as seeke to kill Him through whose eies they did receiue their sight , And to whose practise they consin'd their will : Whose actions were his deeds , in whom they saw All vertues grac'd with a Maiesticke awe . Nor would the Muses haue giuen such occasion Of their owne teares , which they so freely shed . What purpose then ? what motiue ? what perswasion Hath bene the cause that we lament him dead ? Or how came Death to make this proud inuasion , And casket vp this gem in stone and lead ? Himselfe could not , ( for he was all perfection ) Bring his faire body to this low deiection . 'T was that which shattered Sylo , made the earth Gape , and at once deuoure both Tribes and Tents : That made the sphears showre fire , all Natures birth Confin'd into one Arke : that all discents , Degrees and Titles in one generall dearth , Swept from th' earths face , that beyond all extents , Limits and bounds , incenst Ioues indignation , To drowne the world in a deep inundation . What monster may we call this ? Sinne : our sinne , When one alone ( and but one ) that of pride , Cast Angels from the highest Cherubin , All their bright gloryes in the Abisme to hide ; Since many millions we are wrapped in , As vgly and as horrid : deepe sinnes dy'd In bloud , and death ; no wonder if they pull This wrath on vs , to make our griefes more full . They were our selues then , that our selues haue made Thus haplessely distrest , thus inly sad . Yet as we reade , to haue the rage allai'd Of a deepe gulfe : the Romans notice had From th' Oracle , that breach could not be staid Till Romes best Iewell stopt it . Curtius clad In his best Armes and mounted on his steed , To saue a People did a Torrent feede . So since this best of Iewels England stor'd , Hath stopt the gaping entrailes of the graue : Let after ages of this Prince record , Hee freely gaue a life , a land to saue . As gold the Misers God ( by them ador'd ) Depends vpon the Sunne , from him to haue His purity of Temper , and as glasse , Showes th' vtmost vertue that the fire can passe . By which they haue the purenesse not to bee Others then what they are , strange formes to take , And loose their natiue esse : euen so Hee , Being the perfect'st worke Nature could make , Cannot conuert to Dust and Earth as We , Or his first Beauty in the graue forsake . Since Nature in his birth to him hath done , More then to Glasse or Gold , the Fire or Sunne . The more we ioy'd to see his vertues grow , The greater are our sorrowes for his lacke : Excesse of ioy begets excesse of woe , Oft generall weale precedes a generall wracke , Oh! why should our best pleasures perish so , Like waters that passe by but ne're run backe ? And yet to make vs euer thinke of Teares , Though the waues fleete , the Riuer still appeares . I 'le show the cause . Ioue seeing earthly Pleasure , By Man so honoured that the Gods he hated : ( Being ador'd by Mortals aboue measure ) Cal'd her to Heauen there to be new instated , Shee straight disroabes her of all Earthly Treasure , As all must needes do , that are so translated . Greife banisht Earth , whilst Pleasure heere made stay , Finding her Habite steales it quite away . And in that forged Roabe shee hath deluded The world with fading ioyes and transitory : For since shee first into that shape intruded There was on Earth no true essentiall glory . All constancy from Mankind is excluded , Ioy hath no permanence : finde mee a story , That euer hath recorded Man so blest , But happied once , he hath bene twice distrest . To tell his worth were but to adde to sorrow , Like him that being rob'd , still casts the summe : The present fright so much from griefe doth borrow That the instant feels not whence the passions come ; The extasy once past , when , on the morrow The cause is weighed , the voyce no more is dumme : The eies that had their conduits stopt before , Now freely runne , and the hearts griefe deplore . No Oracles were weightier then his words , Those that should counsell him hee could aduise : Art had in him her Mansion : Princes swords Should defend Art , and Art make Princes wise , They had ioin'd league : his fluent braine affoords A Library of Knowledge , and vnties The knotted'st soryte ; faire Pernassus well , The Muses did abandon , there to dwell . As Mettals by the sound , so could he try The flashy from the sollid when they spake : Cleere was his iudgement , as his spirit was hye , His smile was mercy , but his frowne did shake . His aime was to know Art and Chiualry , Saue when to heauen he did his vowes betake . He studied Man : but to be better farre Then man can be : He was halfe Loue , halfe Warre . Hee was not swaide by Fauours , but Desart , Merite , not Flattery still inioy'd his pay : Hee would aduise before he spar'd his Heart , But lending it , not easily tak 't away . Hee had that constant Vertue not to start , Or let ( in his designes ) his iudgement stray . Those that were next him , and his Fauours wore May speake him better , not lament him more . Before he grac't he would both proue and know , He was not idly lost , nor rashly wonne , His maine was Vertue , none might neere him grow , But such as truely knew to chuse or shunne Good things and bad : to punish he was slow , But apt to pardon : Hee was as the Sunne Amid the Planets , seeming so diuin'd , That all about , and neere him he out-shin'd . Posterity , with greater admiration Then I can blaze him , shall embrace his Fame , Those deluges of Teares showr'd from this Nation : Rather to blemish seeme , then blanch his name : Since all our Elegies begot from passion , Come from rent hearts , and those that griese proclaime . Confused thoughts the best conceits destroy , And are more harsh then when we sing of ioy . Being great in Name , his study did agree To make Him great in Purpose : and his deeds Answere his Stile : His Goodnesse was so free , It wanted bound : one Royall action breeds A second still ; the end of one's to be , The entrance to another that succeeds . Honour ( the Manna of each generous Spirit ) Was to him as the Crowne he was to inherit . For well he knew if Fire it selfe should hide , By his owne Smoake it would it self betray , Or if that Water should it selfe diuide , ( As weary of the world ) and steale away : Yet by the Reeds plac'd by the Riuer side , She might be train'd , and so be made to stay . But Honour fled , with it , it beares His tracke , No Time , no Age can stay or call him backe . His Spirits were all actiue , made of fire , Which ( saue in trauell ) can admit no rest . High were his thoughts , yet still surmounting hy're , His very Motiues Industry profest . To be in Action was his sole desire , And not to be so he did most detest . To end his Praise , and proue him past compare , To all his Fathers vertues he was heire . He was but yesterday , and now is faded , Who when we held him deerest , was then lost : So Lands that thinke them saf'st , are oft inuaded , And when they least feare , are afflicted most . So the clear'st skies with blackest clouds are shaded , So Pleasures ( thought most certain ) soon'st are crost . For 't is a Maxime that shall euer stand : Pleasure and Sorrow still march hand in hand . As Hector , had he suruiu'd Tray to see , From Isliams lofty Tower his yong sonne cast : Or such griefe Priam , as it was to thee When worthy Hector , both the first and last Of all Troyes hopes , sunke dead ; me thinkes I see In Royall IAME's , thy sorrowes quite surpast , With double anguish , trebole passions fired , When he first heard Prince Henry was expired . And you Maiesticked ANNE , when Hecub saw Sweet , Polymnestor , all the poore remaine Of her braue Issue , beat by many a flaw , And to the shore forc'd by the billowy Maine : Methinks from her face I your griefe could draw . And you Prince Charles , next of that royall straine ; In yong Polytes I your teares can tell , That day in field his brother Troylus fell . For you ( most hopefull Princesse ) I comprise Your passions in a Dame though not so faire , Yet as those Times affoorded , beauteous , wise , And with the best of that age might compare : Your Teares I reade in bright Pollixen's eyes , That sonne which shee beheld saw none so rare , Though you ( but once ) she ( oft ) had cause of woe , Her , as in beauty you in griefe out-goe . But in this plangor , whom had I forgot , You my Mecaenas ? oh it cannot be That I am so ingrate ; beleeue it not , Though passion almost takes my sence from me : Oh let me neuer weare so foule a spot , As worthy Earle not to remember Thee . Thrice noble Worster gaue my Muse first wing , And from his bounty shee had voyce to sing . So should my bosome harbour something new , Ingratitude , with me , no way agreeing : Then should I not remember whence I grew , Or from what power I first receiu'd my being : To mine owne heart I should not then be true , First hands forget your vse , my eyes their seeing : My tongue thy office , and my Muse her skill , That nere more inke drop from her ragged quill . Pious Aeneas still when I record , ( A man in whom all vertues were compleate ) When Priam's best of sonnes fell by the sword , How he abandon'd rest , ioy , comfort , meate , So oft haue I remembred you graue Lord , Equall in vertues , and your griefe as great . All those glad hopes you from his life did borrow You in his death haue backe rapai'd with sorrow . Yet why should you bewaile him since he 's past This Transitory raigne , for one ay-during , To vex your selues would but his soule distast : He hath but left a Crowne of earths assuring For one immortall , that can neuer wast : Subiect to Time nor Age : there 's no alluring Of mortall pompe can counteruaile the least Of heauens pure blisse ( so are there ioies increast ) Auerre we then ( and without contradiction , ) The losse is ours , but his eternall gaine , T is his best good , all be it our affliction , That such a generall sorrow we sustaine : Death that hath giuen him this new iurisdiction , Doubles his ioyes , as he augments our paine . Then as we lou'd him , let 's rejoyce in this , The greater was our losse , the more 's his blisse . Not for Him then , but for our selues lament : He needs them not , t is we haue vse for teares , He soiournes where can come no discontent , T is we that labour vnder sicknesse , yeares , Heates , colds , Distemprature of Element , Dangers of body , and th'amaze of feares . From all mis-fortunes to the world decreed , ( Of which we stand in doubt ) hee 's happy freed . Not for him then , but for our selues expend Soorses of sad and direfull lamentation , Who see our Griefes liue , and our Hopes haue end : Since Death hath in one blow wounded a Nation , Since Heauen no greater glories can extend Then she enioyes , leauing vs nought but Passion , Since should Death breake his Dart , & ne're shoot more , He cannot cure the hurt he made before . He that will act the wonders of his praise , Shall finde the world a Theater too small . Fame with her Trumpet shall his glories blaze ; Yet ( ere to their full height ) grow hoarse withall , Whom who shall striue to imitate , or raise An equall Hope to his , needely must fall Prostrate , confounded with his owne ambition , So farre shall be precede him in condition . Therefore what my Pen scants him in his merit , With mine owne inward Passions I l'e supply . More then an Earthly Prince , hee 's now a Spirit , Thron'd in a Kingdome , vnto which the Sky Is but a Foot-pace , euer there to inherit , Beyond all Time , to all eternity . Where I lament not Hee is Thron'd and plac't , I onely grieue that Hee hath made such hastle . Thomas Heywood . FINIS .